Shots in the Night
by Ink in the Blood
Summary: A quiet night in the Easy Company aid post is rudely interrupted.
1. Chapter 1 - Heyliger

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters who appear in HBO's miniseries, or Stephen Ambrose's book. =) Certainly no disrespect has been meant in using their names in this piece of fiction.

* * *

"This hand is awful, Sarge. Did you mess with the cards when you shuffled them?"

"If I did, Douglas, I wouldn't tell you. Are you going to continue playing?"

Douglas, medium of height and build, and boyish of face and manner sighs before saying, "Yeah… I guess. It's a good thing we're only playing for loose change, though."

Seated with him around the small folding table are three fourths of the medics on duty at the company aid station. Sarge is directly across Douglas, bewhiskered and an old man at the age of thirty one years. He is hunkered behind his fan of cards and puffing like a chimney on his cigarette. Ed Pepping, is on his left, and is smirking as he looks at his own fistful of cards. "Not your night, Dougie?" he teases.

"Not by a long shot," Douglas grumbles, and tosses down an eight of spades onto the pile of cards on the table. Raising his voice so that it will carry, he calls, "Wanta come bail me out, 'Gene?"

The fourth member of the night shift is Eugene Roe. Like most of his team, Roe is young. He is as dark as Pepping is fair, with thin, almost pinched features. Roe is working at the rear of the tent, splinting the ankle of a soldier who has managed to return from patrol with a sprain.

"That's done, Corporal," he says to the soldier, "You're good to go."

Task complete, Roe then joins the rest of the team at the table. He looks over Douglas' shoulder, and makes a noise of disgust when he sees the man's cards.

"With the luck you're having, Douglas. Not a chance."

"At least I tried," Douglas sighs, and says, "Your turn, Ed."

It has been a relatively quiet night for the aid station. Apart from the soldier with the sprain, the aid men have not been called away to their duties. While that is excellent news for the soldiers on duty, it means a long, quiet night for the medics.

And so, the card games and the cigarettes have made their appearances – distractions, meant to while away the hours while the men wait, and pray that their services will not be necessary. Because for them to be needed could mean that a friend is injured. No one wants that. It is a hard thing even for a relative stranger (for one could not be a bosom friend of everyone in the company) – an acquaintance – to be wounded. Even if he isn't a buddy, he is one of your own.

Fortunately, though, the demand for a medic's attention is now not quite what it was when Easy and her sister companies were involved in active fighting. Sure, they need to defend their little island of calm, their little piece of Holland… sure, they need to trade artillery fire with the Germans across the way every so often… And sure, there are patrols going out regularly and outposts, too…

But, thanks be to God, the action, the skirmishes are spread out. There is a lull in which a person can breathe just a little. Focus and begin to recuperate.

For the team in Easy Company's aid station, that lull ends with the sounds of pounding feet and gasping lungs. Cards are tossed onto the table. Heads turn to the entrance of their tent.

Soon, in bursts a soldier, fresh from the field, his rifle hanging off his shoulder. Face drawn, he falls to his hands and knees and vomits.

Roe goes to support the soldier and helps him to one of their examination tables. Pepping relieves him of his weapon, propping it in a discrete corner of the tent.

"What's the matter, kid?" Sarge asks in his most fatherly voice. The handful of years that he has on the rest of the team and the fact that he has a young son waiting for him State-side make him the best candidate for a paternal substitute at that point.

The soldier sobs out, "Oh God, he was bleeding… He was bleeding… I didn't meant to. I swear! I didn't mean to!"

"Who's bleeding?" Sarge presses gently, as Roe checks the soldier for injuries of his own.

"I dunno… I dunno… Oh, God…" dry heaving, the young man twists onto his side. The medics take a step back, just in case, but the soldier's stomach contents have been emptied.

Sarge tries a different tack, "Where did this happen?"

"Near Lt. Welsh's outpost," whimpers the prone soldier, "Lt. Winters said to get help. I ran. Oh God, oh God… I thought he was a German. I didn't mean to shoot him!"

Sarge is driving the ambulance as fast has he can make the bucket of bolts go. But even knowing that, Roe is forced to bite his tongue, to curb his natural impatience.

His first impulse is to yell – put your foot on the gas, damnit! Instead, he counts to a slow ten in his head. Sarge is doing his level best.

And besides, no one shouts at a sergeant. They shout at you.

One of the men is hurt. Knowing that a friend or an acquaintance is injured is bad enough. What makes it worse is that it was an accident. Human error. Something that might not have happened, but did – all because someone was just a touch too nervous to think clearly… because someone had seen just a tad too much damned horror already and was touchy with the trigger of his rifle.

Still simmering, Roe silently endures the bouncing of the ambulance as it trundles towards the site of the shooting. They have left Douglas with the unfortunate shooter back at the aid tent. That leaves Sarge, Pepping and him to drive out to the field. Roe ignores Pepping, who is riding in the back with him and trying to catch his eye (small talk lifts the mood sometimes, sure, but Roe wasn't biting today), and takes out his string of rosary beads instead.

Looking down at the necklace of plain brown beads, he takes a deep breath. Closing his eyes, shutting out the dim interior of the ambulance, he holds the rosary in his right hand. Roe methodically fingers the beads, the rosary making slow progress around his hand.

 _"Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace;_

 _Where there is hatred, let me sow love;_

 _Where there is injury, pardon –"_

The jerk of the ambulance coming to a halt pulls Roe from his thoughts.

"We're here," Pepping says briskly.

Through the small windows on the ambulance door, little can be seen clearly. Roe can just make out what looks like two figures bending over the something. Then, Pepping has the doors open and they are both jumping from the elevated bed onto the ground.

Captain Winters and Lieutenant Welsh stand up as the medics reach them. There is a lit lantern at their feet. By its dim light, Roe can make out the still features of Lieutenant Heyliger.

"Stretcher!" snaps Winters tersely.

Speedy Pepping is already on the ball. "I got it… I got it!" he says, as he drags the implement from the ambulance and lays it on the ground.

Relief battles with anxiety on the faces of the officers as the medics get to work. They back away a little, watching, hoping and praying for the best.

It is probably for the best that Heyliger is unconscious - considering the extent of the injuries that Roe sees by the light from Pepping's torch. Blood is everywhere. It has pooled on the ground beneath the man, it has soaked through his uniform, and has even managed to get on the officers' clothes and hands.

Inspecting the wounded man, Roe finds that the officers have administered first aid – they have put pressure to and slowed the bleeding at Heyliger's shoulder, though the nastier wound in his calf is still weeping. But it is what Roe doesn't find that makes him scowl. He looks up in time to catch a worried look from Pepping before turning to Winters and Welsh.

"Did you give him morphine?" Roe asks.

"Yeah," Welsh says, clenching and unclenching his hands.

"How much?"

Brow creasing, Welsh says, "I dunno… Two, three syrettes, maybe?"

Roe hears Pepping curse under his breath. He agrees with the sentiments.

"Three syrettes maybe?! Jesus Christ were you _trying_ kill him?"

The aid men go into a flurry of movement, getting the wounded soldier off the ground, onto the stretcher and into the ambulance as carefully as they can.

Even as they work, the words come unbidden to Roe's tongue, "You don't think it might be important to let me know how much medication this man has had, huh? 'Cos I do not see one syrette on the man's jacket."

Welsh and Winters help to load the soldier into the ambulance.

"Sorry, Doc" Welsh says, looking truly contrite. Winters says nothing, though he his face is that of a man who has been kicked in the stomach.

"It's a good thing he's a big man. Maybe he'll make it," Roe retorts fiercely, as Pepping hops into the ambulance ahead of him.

Welsh repeats himself, "Sorry Doc. He was in a lot of pain. We didn't know –"

The last three words are the spark that ignites Roe's temper. Didn't know? Bullshit – these were the men that were supposed to lead them all in combat. They couldn't not know – not when so many lives depended on them!

"Yeah?" he snarls, "Well, you are officers and you are grownups. You _oughta_ know." Leaning out of the back, Roe calls to Sarge, "Alright, let's go. C'mon, move it!"

Once in the back of the ambulance, Roe only has eyes for the wounded soldier. He doesn't even notice that it is Winters, not Pepping, who heaves the doors closed and pounds on them to get ambulance moving.

And he doesn't notice the bloody palm print that Winters has left on the window in token of farewell.

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _If I've done this right, this should tell the story of the scene when 1_ _st_ _Lt. Heyliger is shot by one of his own men near Lt. Welsh's command post (CP). He happened to be walking towards the CP with Winters while on the way to inspect the outposts around the territory that the company was meant to be defending (they were in Holland at the time). Heyliger is shot in both the shoulder and the calf. The scene is dramatized in Episode 5 – Crossroads of the miniseries, and is mentioned by Stephen Ambrose in his book in Chapter 9 – The Island._

 _I've taken liberties in describing the event in prose and may not have stayed completely true to canon. The characters that I'm focusing on are those depicted in the HBO miniseries, but I have added spice to the story by including elements of Ambrose's material, too._


	2. Chapter 2 - Gossip

The mess tent is relatively empty. It is mid-morning, and the bulk of the breakfast crowd has left for their duties, while the lunch press is not due for a couple more hours. In the make shift kitchens behind the tent, the cooks are hard at work. Various smells, some more appetising than others waft through the air. The noises of the kitchen – the clatter of pots and pans, the chatter of the cooks – mix with the ever present buzz of the camp.

Seated at a bench at the back of the tent, is Eugene Roe. He is eating a bowl of stew with little enthusiasm and enjoying a moment of quiet after a night of ambulance duty.

Neither are going to stay with him for very long.

Because Roe is nearly done with his stew, and two of America's finest have just made appearances of their own.

"Heard you gave Winters and Welsh the third degree, Doc."

Uninvited, Bill Guarnere claims the space on the bench to Roe's left.

"I gotta to say," Babe Heffron adds as he drops into the space on Roe's right, "I never pegged you as a swearing man. Guess still waters run deep, eh, Bill?"

"Damn straight," Guarnere grins, and spoons a mouthful of greasy mess hall stew into his mouth. He grimaces. "Say, there's no protocol for dealing with upset stomachs, is there, Doc?"

Roe can feel the blush creeping up his neck.

"It was a mistake," he says, keeping his eyes on his own bowl of stew. "I shouldn'ta said what I did to 'em."

"Still… Gotta hand it to you, Doc – there're a lot of guys who'll remember their first aid protocols a whole lot better now." Guarnere jabs his spoon in Roe's direction with the authority of a man stating a fact.

"Yeah," Heffron grins broadly, "They're not ready to risk how pissed you'll be if they forget."

Roe mutters something noncommittal in response, and drains the remainder of his stew in one go. He takes his leave of Heffron and Guarnere, saying that he has duties at the aid post.

It's partially true. He is planning on finding out how the story of Heyliger's shooting has managed to spread so quickly in the two days since it happened. Guarnere and Heffron are not the first to bring it up as a joke.

* * *

A short walk through Easy Company's camp – a patchwork of buildings that the Americans have commandeered for the war effort from the Dutch and tents – and Roe is at the company aid post.

He is not in luck. Pepping isn't there.

But, members of the day shift are, and they send Roe along to what passes as an Allied 'recreation hall' in war torn Holland. In reality, it is just another house, minimally damaged by shelling – the walls are chipped in some places, but at least all of them are still standing. The men don't complain too loudly – for now, they are just glad to have some place to be apart from their beds when they are off duty.

Within, on the first floor of the house, there is a pool table, another table and a set of chairs for loungers and loiterers, as well as a small bookcase with titles in English and board games. And then there were the playing cards – they were ubiquitous. The bedrooms on the second floor and the attic have been turned into billets for some of the more sound sleepers in the regiment.

When Roe enters the rec hall, there are at least three card games going. There is also a cluster of men around the pool table. The air is choked with cigarette smoke and the smells of unwashed bodies. Raucous laughter and rough voices make the small hall feel even smaller.

But, this time, Roe is in luck.

Striking two birds with one stone, he places one hand on Douglas's left shoulder, and one hand on Pepping's right shoulder.

The two men had been watching the pool game, calling out helpful and not-so helpful comments to the players. Both just about jump out of their skins when Roe gets their attention.

He is unrepentant.

"Geeze, Gene…" Douglas says, "You gave me a heart attack."

"Yeah," grumbles Pepping, "What're you doing sneaking around, for?"

"I wanta have a word with you two – someplace quieter."

* * *

'Someplace quieter' turns out to be the outside of the rec hall. Pepping, Douglas and Roe are standing huddled in a tight knot, a private conference.

Roe jumps right in.

"How'd that story about Heyliger getting shot get out?"

Pepping and Douglas trade looks.

Douglas had not been present in the ambulance when the night team had gone to attend to Heyliger. He had been keeping an eye on Heyliger's shooter. Pepping, on the other hand, had witnessed everything, as had Sarge.

"I told Doug what happened," Pepping starts.

"And I might have told a person or two in the day crew," continues Douglas.

And talk flew around the men like flies around a pile of rotting garbage. Roe didn't need to ask about Sarge's reaction to the entire episode – even if Sarge had kept his opinions to himself, the story would have already had plenty of impetus.

Roe exhales heavily. He reaches into his trouser pocket, produces a pack of cigarettes and shakes one loose. After Douglas supplies the lighter, Roe takes a long, deep pull of smoke.

"Everythin', OK, Gene?" Pepping asks.

Weighing his words, Roe is slow to begin.

"I saw Guarnere and Heffron in the mess tent. They joked about how I yelled at Winters and Welsh," he says as last.

"So what? It's Bill and Ed," Douglas smiles. "Joking's what they do."

"They weren't the first… And if the boys are talkin' about it, chances are that Lt. Winters and Lt. Welsh know about the story, too," Roe says.

"I should hope so," Douglas quips, "They were there."

Pepping elbows Douglas in the ribs. "I don't think it's the facts that 'Gene's worried about, you dummy."

"Yeah…" Roe takes another long pull from his cigarette.

Winters and Welsh had not shown themselves to be petty in their dealings with their men. On the contrary, they were fair, and just about universally well respected.

However, the tone of some of the variations in the Heyliger shooting story had been fairly… irreverent. It might wound a man's pride, hearing some of those stories. And who knew for sure how a man whose pride had been wounded would act?

"You ain't worried that Winters and Welsh are gonna pull a Sobel on you, are you?" eyes narrowing, Pepping jabs the sharp question at Roe.

"Kinda. Don't want 'em thinkin' that I'm disrespectin' 'em."

In hindsight, it would have been better if he had held his tongue on that night. Even if the sentiments behind them had held any grain of truth, they were not words that needed to be said in _quite that way_ to anyone.

Least of all, to one's superiors.

Winters and Welsh had not summoned him to see them in person, and Roe had not been handed any demerits second hand, by written order. They probably had bigger problems than a loose lipped soldier.

There was a war on, after all.

Still, Roe didn't relish the idea of their retribution. When it came. If it came.

"You know…" Douglas fishes around in his pockets and produces a cigarette of his own. He rolls it in and out of his fingers thoughtfully. "My mum always said that it's best to grab a bull by the horns."

"Eh?"

"I'm thinking… If you went to apologize to them, or something, it might not seem so bad."

Sometimes, Douglas isn't the hulking dummy that he makes himself out to be.

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _The events of this story are set a couple of days after 1_ _st_ _Lt. Heyliger is shot by one of his own men near Lt. Welsh's command post (CP), as it appears in Episode 5 – Crossroads of Band of Brothers._

 _I've taken liberties in describing the event in prose and may not have stayed completely true to canon. This is entirely a work of fiction – apart from the men whose names I have borrowed. No disrespect was intended in the way they have been characterised._


	3. Chapter 3 - A Bull by the Horns

There was a gap between Roe deciding that he would apologize to Winters and Welsh and him actually doing it.

Life got in the way. There were responsibilities to attend to – being on call at the aid post translated into hours spent waiting for the next casualty, cataloguing the medical supplies on hand, preparing the ambulance for the next shift – amongst other things.

A man could get real busy, real fast.

And then there was the difficulty Roe had in finding the right time to approach the officers.

While Winters and Welsh were fairly amiable, approachable men, it simply did not feel right to saunter up to them for chat. They were incredibly busy with their duties. The few times that Roe had seen them about, they had been deep in conference with other staff officers. And judging from the intensity of their frowns, they definitely had worries of their own.

So, between one thing and another, a week passed before Roe actually spoke to the officers.

He had a little speech prepared and rehearsed. It ran something like –

"Lt. Winters and Lt. Welsh, sirs, I'm sorry I yelled at y'all the night Heyliger got shot. I was shootin' my mouth off. I'll take whateva punishment you think is fair to give. But, I want y'all to know that I really didn't mean any disrespect."

However, when the opportunity for Roe to use it actually arose, it flew right out of his head, as is natural for such occasions.

* * *

It had been an eventful night. A patrol had run afoul of a new nest of German machine gunners. The night shift at the aid post had been up to their elbows in blood.

Quite literally in one case.

The medics were only released from their duties well into the morning – after ensuring that the casualties with relatively superficial wounds were patched up, while those who were more severely off were stabilised and readied for transportation to a field hospital.

Walking alone back to his billet, there is a weight on Roe's shoulders. It shows in the thin line of his mouth, and the frown that draws his eyebrows together.

He had spent a good portion of the night holding the hand of a man he only knew by name, murmuring assurances while a doctor did his best to stem the blood that was oozing from his leg.

Man? Hell. Jones couldn't have been more than nineteen.

But, bullets didn't discriminate by youth.

The doctor wasn't sure if Jones' leg could be saved.

Roe shakes his head, trying to clear it of its heavy thoughts. He has reached his billet – the house with the blue door at the end of the lane.

The house is quiet. Roe treads as lightly as his heavy boots will allow. Some of his house-mates are at their respective posts, some are probably asleep, having come off the graveyard shift like him.

Roe's bed is in a room on the second floor, which he shares with three other men. He does not know what the room had been used for before the American army requisitioned the house for its own purposes. It is small. There is just enough room for two men to sleep in pallets on the floor, and a double decker bed pushed flush against the left wall. The men's gear take up what little space that remains, heaped in piles against the wall to the right.

Taking his boots off at the door, Roe tiptoes into the room. Muck and Penkala are sound asleep in the bunk bed, snoring in harmony. On a pallet, Malarkey lifts his head from his pillow at the sounds of entry. He murmurs a quiet greeting, and then goes back to reading.

Roe's pallet is closest to the door – no one had wanted Doc climbing over them to get to the door when someone needed him. Today, he is exceptionally grateful for this consideration. It means that he does not have to move far to get to his bed.

The mattress is thin, but he is so tired that it doesn't matter. No bothering to undress, Roe collapses into bed, and is snoring quite as loudly as his billet-mates in seconds.

* * *

Roe's stomach is his alarm clock.

He wakes to the growling of his gut. It reminds him that he has not eaten since late afternoon the previous day.

Yawning, he sits up on his mattress, and begins to rub his eyes – only to stop short with a grimace.

His hands are not as clean as he had thought they were when he left the aid post earlier. There is dull brown grime caked under his nails, and in streaks on his fingers.

 _'A guy with dirty hands – yeah, that's who I'd want poking around my insides,'_ Roe thinks with a wry smile. There is no doubt that Sarge would have saddled him with extra duties at the aid post as punishment if he had seen the state of Roe's hands. He'd have Roe cleaning the ambulances for a week.

Good hygiene – that was one of the weapons in the arsenal against infection. If the average infantryman had his rifles and bullets to help win the war, a medic had soap and water.

* * *

Roe decides on a bath.

The average time between baths is a week for most men in the camp, as bathing facilities are limited. Some men have the luxury of having working baths in their billets. Unfortunately, Roe is not among them. Neither does he feel like trying his luck with the baths in someone else's house.

You took your chances with the plumbing in Holland. You never knew when the water would go funny.

To be fair, the plumbing probably wasn't meant to cater to the needs of the sheer numbers that the Americans packed into the little village.

Even though Roe technically isn't due a bath for a couple of days, the sight of his bloody hands have made his skin crawl. They are motivation enough to brave the chill autumn air in shorts and undershirt while he waits for his turn at the communal shower tent.

The tent has been set up in an unused field. Getting there means a walk of about five minutes, through the bustle and bluster of a busy gathering of people. Though the various companies have their command posts and makeshift offices, there are always men on the move. Add to that the occasional burst of artillery fire, and it gave a person the impression that the camp never rested.

Folding his arms against his chest, Roe sets off from his billet at a fast pace. Teeth chattering, he braces himself against the wind. Goosbumps rise on his arms and legs. It is colder here in Holland than it ever was back home in Louisiana. And knowing that the water in the showers will be cold is no consolation.

He is not the only men hankering after cleanliness. At the field, Roe discovers a queue of men stretching the length of the tent, all waiting for their turn in the showers.

Roe goes up to a desk of the clerk overseeing laundry collections and towel hand outs.

"Why the long wait?" he asks, as the skinny young man hands him a towel.

An apologetic grin flashes quickly across his dark face. "Can't get water in," he says in a quick, clipped accent. "This tent's the only one that's working in E Company's side of the camp. The other one meant for enlisted men's gone belly up, and the officer's shower tent, too."

Good grief.

Things were going to stink real bad before the engineers could get things sorted out.

Roe thanks the man and takes his place in the queue.

Then, all thoughts of discomfort disappear in a flash of realization.

The man standing in front of him has red hair, and there aren't that many people in the company with that distinction.

Lt. Winters stands out in the company not only because of his prowess as a leader.

For a fleeting instant, Roe thinks about leaving.

It is an instant too long in thought, because Winters turns when he realizes that someone is behind him.

"Hello, Roe," he says.

The man Winters had been talking to looks over his shoulder.

"Hiya, Doc," Welsh says.

Roe manages a polite, if mumbled, reply to their greetings.

"How are things?" asks Winters in a perfectly civil tone.

"Good," Roe begins – and then his conscience gets the better of him. His carefully rehearsed speech goes down the toilet.

"Lt. Winters, Lt. Welsh, sirs… I goofed. I'm sorry. I spoke outta turn that night Lt. Heyliger got shot. If I was thinkin' I'd never've said what I did."

The silence that meets his announcement leaves Roe extremely uncomfortable. Winters' face is unreadable, but a faint twitch has developed in Welsh's cheek. He looks almost amused.

"Roe," Winters finally says, "That's the most I've ever heard you say in one go."

* * *

The night shift has made the aid tent their own for another evening.

Sarge is reading in the corner. Pepping and Douglas are doing an inventory of the medical supplies in the ambulance. Roe is rolling bandages.

All freeze when an unexpected visitor makes an appearance in their doorway.

So rarely does the aid tent receive apparently healthy visitors that it is as if the men are unsure how to respond.

But Lt. Winters makes a small sound, a subtle prompt that has Sarge on his feet, calling the rest of his team to attention.

"At ease," Winters says, with a small smile, as the men relax their stances. "I came by because Lt. Heyliger wrote to me. Thought you might want to know how he's doing. He sends his regards and thanks to you all."

"How is he, sir?" asks Pepping.

"He's mending in a hospital in England. He also says - " Winters pauses to take a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket, " - that he has had casts put over his wounds, and that it smells like cat shit."

That produces a short laugh from the assembled men.

"I also wanted to thank you personally," Winters continues, looking at each man in turn, "Yours is a never ending job, but one that you do to the best of your abilities. I'm proud to be serving alongside you all."

Winters salutes.

Stunned, the medics return the gesture.

Roe feels a weight lift off his chest. He is not the only one touched by the officer's praise. What looks like a bona fide tear glistens precariously in the corner of Douglas' eye, and Pepping is standing as tall as his slight frame will allow.

With that, Winters bids the men a good night, and continues on his way.

The atmosphere of the aid tent is somewhat lighter for that demonstration of kindness and respect. Nothing has changed in the drab interior – the boxes remain piled in one corner, the examination table is still scrubbed wood overlaid with a cotton sheet, the walls of the tent are still a drab olive green.

But, in the hearts of the men, there is a lightness – a kind of gratitude in being recognized; encouragement in knowing that their work is meaningful.

Though the conflict around them would continue for months and days, today, _this day_ – the men have just enough strength to continue with their duties.

Let tomorrow bring what it would. There would be time enough to deal with it then.

 _Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace;_ _  
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;  
Where there is injury, pardon;  
Where there is error, the truth;  
Where there is doubt, the faith;  
Where there is despair, hope;  
Where there is darkness, light;  
And where there is sadness, joy._

 _O Divine Master,_  
 _Grant that I may not so much seek_  
 _To be consoled, as to console;_  
 _To be understood, as to understand;_  
 _To be loved as to love._

 _For it is in giving that we receive;_  
 _It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;_  
 _And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life._

 _Amen._

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _The events of this story are set a some time after 1st Lt. Heyliger is shot by one of his own men near Lt. Welsh's command post (CP), as it appears in Episode 5 – Crossroads of Band of Brothers. The contents of the letter that Winters reads are mentioned in Stephen Ambrose's book, Band of Brothers._

 _I've taken liberties in describing the event in prose and may not have stayed completely true to canon. This is entirely a work of fiction – apart from the men whose names I have borrowed. No disrespect was intended in the way they have been characterised._


End file.
